


Choose Your Own Adventure Story:  Drunken Escapades of Dovahkiin

by excelsis



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:00:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelsis/pseuds/excelsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A choose your own adventure style story in the making--what will you do?  Will you stumble home from the bar and pass out in a ditch?  Will you blow all your coin in a whorehouse?  Or will you end up robbed at knife point by a hooker?  You decide!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                You stride confidently down the cobblestone path.  You are the Dovahkiin, the savior of mankind, the hero of Skyrim—and Talos damn it, you are invincible.  Or at least, you feel you are invincible after some Nord mead, a bit of wine, and more than your fair share of skooma.

                The sun set hours ago and the stars glisten on high as if solely to light your path, which is of course their entire reason for existence.  You imagine people rewriting the stories of the nighttime luminaries in your honor—as is your due.  As you strut down the road, confident in your abilities, your prowess, your smooth debonair, you nod primly to the men and women who gaze upon you as you pass them by.  They all want you; everyone does.

                Feeling in good spirits, secure in your good looks and your suave style, you give a jaunty wink to an attractive dame walking by.  She wrinkles her mouth in what might have been disgust but was more likely a smile, you decide.  She covers her mouth, stepping away from you—to hide the smile of course.  She makes a gagging noise.

                “Geez, lay off the booze,” she complains.

                _Ah,_ you think.  _She appreciates someone with more refined taste._   You decide to prove to her that you are just such a someone by serenading her with a tale of your most epic adventures.  Are you a member of the Bard College, or aren’t you, after all?  You took a breath.  The air fills your powerful lungs, and you open your mouth to sing.

                Instead, out of your mouth is unleashed a mighty belch, your breath of the sort that would make a buzzard look up from a dead antelope.  She gagged desperately, and ran away.  You open your mouth again, to try to serenade her anyway—both of them, that is.  When did her twin sister arrive?  They looked just alike, really.

                You manage to sing, “Deep in the dark of… some mine… or a ruin!”  You grin lazily at a nearby dog.  “Hey.  I met a talking dog once.  You talk, dog?”

                The dog makes no reply, but watches you intently.  You stumble a bit—but that’s the ground’s fault.  It really should not jump about like that—seemed dangerous.

                “Guard!” you call.  “Ground keeps moving around.  You had best give it a _stern_ talking to!”

                Can they not hear you?  Well, you can fix that, sure enough!  What good is the Voice, if not to get someone’s attention?

                You open your mouth again, prepared to use your most interesting weapon at your disposal.  Instead of the sweet music as only your voice can bring to the world, your stomach roiled, and pushing out of your through like an angry slaughterfish came the vomit.  You spit twice and swipe at your mouth, eager to be away from the stench of what you left lying on the ground.

                The dog rises and sniffs appreciatively at it, but you pay it no heed.

                You open the nearest door, and fall through blindly, half-hoping it is another bar, and half-hoping it is your home, which also has alcohol in it.

                You fall to the floor of the room, and lie there for a bit, enjoying the way the floor feels, which you could describe as smooth and wooden.  Someone steps on you and you moan and complain, but crawl to your feet.  “I’m a Falmer!” you exclaim with delight, hobbling about and hissing until you plop yourself in a wooden chair.

                This must be another bar, you decide.  “More mead!” you yell, pounding on the table for service.

                “Ser, this is a whorehouse,” a stern-looking older woman says, scowling down her nose at you.

 

What do you do?

  1.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I’ll be going then.” (Chapter 2)
  2. “Is that so…”  (Chapter 3)




	2. Chapter 2

                You blink, startled that you had wandered in to such a place unknowingly.  What were you thinking?  Most likely, you were not.  Naturally, you, as Dovahkiin, savior of Skyrim and all mortal life, had your mind on more important matters.

                “I’m so sorry,” you babble.  “I’ll just be going then.”  You frown, start to say something else, but belch loudly instead.  You scowl at all the patrons and the gathered whores, head held high in your obvious superiority.

                You shove your way out of the room, toward the door.  You fumble awkwardly with the door, trying to push it open when it is obviously a door that should be pulled open.  You flush again, scowling back at the patrons and whores as if it is their fault, which of course it is, as you are practically a god in your perfection.

                The god that you are, you trip gracefully into the gutter, landing in mud, and a substance that was likely _not_ mud.  You swear, loudly and with feeling and climb to your feet, yelling at the occasional passersby.  You try to brush off some of the mud idly as you stagger about, but all the buildings look exactly the same to you, and it is difficult to tell one street from another when they continue to insist on moving about as they did.  As you progress, you become more and more lost, all the while stubbornly insisting that you know exactly where you are going, sometimes out loud.

                A dark barked, startling you.  You run into a wooden post.  You look about to see if anyone witnessed this incident.  You see no one, so you continue on, grumbling about posts. 

                You stumble around the city a bit more, getting more and more lost.  Ultimately, you fall face-first into a gutter, and you continue to lie there, muttering to yourself, until the pale grey light of dawn falls across your back.

                You look up, wondering why you are lying there.  You flinch from the harsh, painful light around you, and skulk off home to nurse your pounding headache, and perhaps eat a loaf of bread and a cabbage.


	3. Chapter 3

                You raise an eyebrow appreciatively.  What fortune!  It is typical of you that you should wander into such an establishment.  Of course it was no drunken blunder; you had intended to come here, had you not?  Dovahkiin does not blunder.  “Is that so…” you drawl, suddenly feeling _much_ more level-headed.  “And you serve alcohol here?”

                “To all our patrons, ser,” she said, as if she were already growing tired of you.

                “Excellent.  Then a patron I shall be!” you exclaim with feeling.  “Where is your privy?”  The woman sighs, and shows you the way.  You have a dragon-sized piss, and vomit the rest of the contents of your stomach, feeling enormously better and much more sober.  Or at least, sober enough.

                You swagger back into the main room and order a whiskey.  You suspect it is watered down a bit, but you drink it any way, and request to see the lineup.

                The stern woman sighed, rolled her eyes, and barked at her whores to line up.  An assortment of humans, elves, an orc, an Argonian, and two Khajit stood in file.  _This is almost just like when I was a prisoner,_ you think with an inward sigh.  _I hate decisions._

                Now, let’s see…  Nords were resistant to ice or something, and the Dunmer were necromancers or some shit, and Argonians breathe underwater, Khajit lick their butts…

                You stare at the whores numbly.  Do you want male or female?  You don’t know.  Aren’t they both good?

                You bite your lower lip in frustration.

                Or maybe the real question is, what race did you want?  Or body type?  Skin color?  There were so many choices, just like trying to pick a magic to specialize in…

                Then you have it, the perfect sexual partner of the evening…

 

  1.  Surprise me.  (Chapter four)
  2. Orgy!  (Chapter Five)
  3. I’ll take that shifty-looking one in the corner.  (Chapter Six)
  4. The decision proves to be too difficult, and you leave, disappointed.  (Chapter 2)




	4. Chapter 4

                You stare deeply into the eyes of each whore, measuring the depth of their depraved souls.  _Petty soul gems,_ you think to yourself.

                You swing about and stare at the matronly owner of the establishment.  “Madame,” you announce.  “Surprise me!”

                She nods, as if she were expecting this from you.  “Very well, ser.  Please, come this way and you may await your evening companion.”  You follow her upstairs,  running into her several times.  You are annoyed that she does not walk as fast as you do, and you circle about her more than once.  You peek into drawers, and check the contents of an armoire.  She stares at you as if you are a squat beetle in her path.

                She opens a door.  “Here we are.”

                “Weee!” you yell, rushing past her, nearly knocking her over in your mad dash into the room.  You careen onto the bed.  She sighs, and the door shuts.  You roll about on the bed, giggling to yourself.

                The door opens, but the room is dark, and you don’t really care who it is anyway.

                The door shuts, and the whore moves toward you.  They begin by pulling your boots off of your most esteemed feet.  The whore helps you out of the rest of your clothes, and you are pleasantly surprised to find the whore already nude.

                _Well_ , you think.  _This’ll be great!_

                The lusty Argonian whore ran her tongue from your toes all the way up to your hips.  Her mouth spent a fair amount of time between your legs.  When did you sit down?  It didn’t matter.  You moan, legs spread, heat rushing to your groin.  She starts to look up, and you force her head back down.

                _Why_ , you wonder, _do Argonians have breasts if they hatch?  Did they hatch and then breastfeed?_

Doesn’t matter.  You fall back against the bed, legs shaking, toes curling.  You feel like you have lost all control of your body with the skill of her tongue and fingers.  She crawls over you, smooth scales against your flesh.  Her tail rubs suggestively along your calf, wrapping around your leg suggestively.

                You smile to yourself, staring at her heaving bosom.

                You lean forward, pushing your face into her ample cleavage.  You squeeze her breasts together, and listen to her sigh.  To your drunken mind, it sounds genuine.  You lick and squeeze, and play with her nipples.  You don’t know why you’re surprised when you run your hands over her stomach, and she doesn’t have a bellybutton.

                Her tongue ran over your throat, against your lips.  She explored your chest, and back between your legs again.

 

                You wake up alone in the bed with a massive headache, and you smell like Argonian spit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assuming that you are not an Argonian.


End file.
